


come home to my heart

by ace_verity



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020), DC Extended Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, POV Alternating, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25561048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ace_verity/pseuds/ace_verity
Summary: Dinah isn’t stupid, even with painkillers dulling her senses and the ache of her injury pulsing faintly through her skull. She knows that these two women — Helena and Renee, she has to remind herself — haven’t told her everything, not with doctors and nurses still milling around, but in between the countless tests and scans and lectures about 'retrograde amnesia' and 'memory retrieval' and 'most likely temporary' and 'wait and see', Dinah hasn’t had a spare moment to ask them who they really are — and what they really are to her.All she knows is that, though the shorter of the two is in and out, making calls and bringing coffee and talking in a brusque, efficient tone belied by the concern in her eyes, the taller woman never leaves — only stepping out to give Dinah privacy, and even that is marked by just the slightest hesitation.Like she’s used to staying — like whoever Dinah is now would want her to stay.---Dinah loses her memory, leaving Helena struggling to pick up the pieces and wondering if their lives will ever be the same.
Relationships: Helena Bertinelli/Dinah Lance
Comments: 49
Kudos: 182





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not the first to write an amnesia fic for this pairing — kaorujin's [forget me not](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24836866) is a lovely read. go check it out!
> 
> cw: general angst, injury, mild violence

“What the fuck is taking so long?” Helena mutters, tense beside Dinah. “Shouldn’t they be here already?”

“Drug runners aren’t known for being on time, Killer,” Renee points out, earning a glare. “Thought you were supposed to be patient.”

“I _am_ patient.” It comes out as a growl.

“Sure you are.”

Before Helena can get even more irritated at Renee, Dinah steps in to change the subject. “We got a plan, or just the usual?”

“Usual. Go in, kick ass.”

“Works for me.” Dinah nudges Helena. “How ‘bout a kiss for good luck?”

And that puts a smile on Helena’s face, as always, even when Renee rolls her eyes and pointedly looks away. 

“You don’t need luck,” Helena points out, but she still leans in and presses her lips against Dinah’s, soft and quick.

“You two need a room, or can we get to work?” Renee hisses, jerking her head towards the entrance of the warehouse — there’s movement outside, footsteps approaching. 

“Fuck off, Renee.” Dinah steals a second kiss and then straightens up. “Let’s get this over with.”

It’s a fight like any other, practically routine at this point, and they’ve got half the guys knocked out in no time at all — and maybe she’s distracted, or too many successful missions have made them overconfident, because the only warning she gets before something solid and heavy cracks against her head is Helena’s frantic warning shout, half a second too late, and there’s a burst of white-hot pain —

And then nothing but darkness. 

\---

The second Helena sees Dinah fall, it’s like the ground is yanked from under her feet, and suddenly her only thought is of making it to her side. She doesn’t think she’s ever moved so fast in her life, dodging and taking down guys twice her size, and by the time only she and Renee are left standing, Helena’s knuckles are throbbing, and blood is drying tacky on the back of her hands, but she doesn’t care — because Dinah’s still prone on the ground, and the sight makes Helena’s heart wrench in her chest. 

“She’s breathing,” Renee tells her, relief clear in her voice. “Looks like a nasty hit to her head, though. She’s gonna need the hospital.”

Helena can’t bring herself to speak, just nods and tries not to think about how sickeningly familiar this seems — a floor littered with bodies, the scent of blood in the air — and she takes Dinah carefully in her arms, holding her close and following Renee to the car. There’s a strange droning sound that drowns out anything Renee says, drowns out the words of the nurses and doctors when they reach the hospital, and it’s only when Renee grabs her by the wrist and physically holds her back that Helena lets them wheel Dinah away. Helena stands frozen until Dinah disappears from sight, and then Renee steers her to the restroom and makes her wash the blood off her hands, rusted red flakes standing out against the white porcelain basin.

It feels like an eternity passes before a doctor comes out to speak to them, and only a few phrases really stick — _head trauma,_ and _the extent is unclear,_ and _wait and see._

Renee’s the one to thank the doctor, even though Helena’s technically listed as next of kin, and they follow him through sterile halls until they reach Dinah’s room.

She’s alive — the doctor had said as much, and the beeping monitors confirm it — but suddenly Helena’s rooted to the spot, staring at Dinah’s still form, at the slight rise and fall of her chest, the bandages around her head, and she feels bile rising in her throat.

“Hey.” Renee’s in front of her, gripping her by the elbows. “You gotta pull it together, alright? She’s gonna be just fine. Doc said she should wake up in a few hours. Take a seat, kid. Keep her company.” Renee gives her arms a bracing squeeze, then steers her toward the chair next to the bed, and Helena drops into it obediently, moves forward as close as she can get and takes Dinah’s hand.

_Wait and see._

\---

Dinah wakes up slowly, like struggling to the surface of a deep sea, and awareness trickles in bit by bit: first the sound of beeping, steady and relentless, then the smell of disinfectant and starched sheets, then the dull throb of pain echoing in her skull, and finally — the pressure of something resting against her hip.

Dinah opens her eyes, squinting in the glare of fluorescents, and immediately goes rigid. There’s a dark-haired woman asleep in the chair beside her bed, her head pillowed against Dinah’s side, and Dinah jerks away on instinct.

Probably the wrong thing to do, because the woman stirs. “Dinah?”

“How the hell do you know my name?” Dinah tries to ask, but the words die out once she realizes how dry her throat is.

“You’re awake,” the woman says, and her face lights up with relief, then quickly shifts to intent focus. “Are you thirsty? Here —”

She holds up a cup of water, and even though her mind is swirling with questions, Dinah accepts it and drains the whole thing in a few swallows.

“Are you, um — How are you feeling?” the woman asks, setting the cup aside and twisting her hands nervously.

“You a nurse or something?” She doesn’t look like it, not dressed all in black like some kind of Batman wannabe. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

The woman’s brow furrows. “I’m — It’s me. Helena. You got hurt in — in a mugging." She emphasizes the word, raising her eyebrows meaningfully. "Remember?” And the woman — Helena — takes Dinah’s hand, rubbing her thumb in a circle over the skin. 

_A mugging?_ Not unlikely in this part of town. It must have happened when she stepped out of the club for a smoke after her set, but try as she might, she can’t remember anything out of the ordinary.

Dinah pulls away. “Sorry, but I don’t know who the fuck you are, alright? I want to talk to a doctor.”

“You don’t…” Helena trails off, worry clear on her face, but there’s something more, too — a softness deep in her eyes that’s almost overwhelming in its intensity, and Dinah has to look away, because it’s been years since anyone, let alone some woman she doesn’t recognize, looked at her with that kind of care.

“They said you might be confused at first, from the drugs,” Helena says after a moment, but she doesn’t sound convinced, and then she gives a tight nod. “I’ll find a doctor. And Renee.” She looks at Dinah expectantly, like she’s trying to tell if Dinah recognizes the name, but then bites her lip and stands — stiffly, like she’s been sitting for a while. She hesitates at the door, opens her mouth but then closes it again, and Dinah drops her head against the pillow once she’s gone, exhaustion weighing her down even though she’s only been awake for a few minutes.

Somehow, she doesn’t think she’ll be able to rest any time soon.

\---

They ask Dinah the date, and she gets it wrong — by almost two years’ difference.

They ask Dinah if she recognizes Helena and Renee, and she looks at Helena with a wariness that Helena hasn’t seen directed at her in over a year and says that she doesn’t.

When she looks at Renee, she squints, and Helena feels a brief surge of hope, until —

“Renee Montoya? You’re a cop, right?”

“Not anymore,” Renee tells her, earning a huff of laughter. 

“Yeah? Good for you.” Dinah eyes Renee with a mix of skepticism and humor, and then the doctors resume the questioning. For a terrible moment, Helena fears that Dinah will think her mother is still alive, that they’ll have to break the news — but when asked if she has any family to contact, Dinah’s mouth twists bitterly, and she says _no._

It’s both a relief and a blow.

And then one of the doctors asks where Dinah works, and she answers — 

“The Black Mask.”

From beside Helena, Renee mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

 _She doesn’t remember any of it,_ Helena realizes. Not the night at the Boobytrap, not taking down Sionis, not forming the Birds of Prey.

Not their first kiss, or moving in together, or any of the thousand moments after that built up the love between them — all of it, gone in the blink of an eye, and there’s nothing Helena can do.

\---

Dinah isn’t stupid, even with painkillers dulling her senses and the ache of her injury pulsing faintly through her skull. She knows that these two women — Helena and Renee, she has to remind herself — haven’t told her everything, not with doctors and nurses still milling around, but in between the countless tests and scans and lectures about _retrograde amnesia_ and _memory retrieval_ and _most likely temporary_ and _wait and see,_ Dinah hasn’t had a spare moment to ask them who they really are — and what they really are to her.

All she knows is that, though the shorter of the two is in and out, making calls and bringing coffee and talking in a brusque, efficient tone belied by the concern in her eyes, the taller woman never leaves — only stepping out to give Dinah privacy, and even that is marked by just the slightest hesitation.

Like she’s used to staying — like whoever Dinah is now would _want_ her to stay.

Dinah tells herself that she shouldn’t feel guilty for the way Helena looks lost, but she does anyway, and that in turn frustrates her — it’s not _her_ fault that she can’t remember. It’s not _her_ fault that she’s stuck two years in a future she doesn’t understand, where nobody gives her straight answers and all these people look at her with barely-masked pity.

So she’s simmering with anger and confusion and unwanted guilt by the time the doctors finally stop prodding her, and then it’s just her and Renee and Helena and a tray of bland hospital food untouched on the nightstand — not that Dinah isn’t hungry, she _is,_ but she’s not about to get distracted.

“Alright, what the hell aren’t you telling me?” she asks as soon as the three of them are alone, and Helena’s head snaps up as she looks between Dinah and Renee, who meets Helena’s gaze and heaves a sigh.

“You know Roman Sionis?” Renee asks.

“No shit, I work at his club.” She can’t keep the frustration out of her tone, but at this point, she thinks she damn well deserves to be frustrated. 

“Not anymore,” Renee tells her, and doesn’t stop talking for a long time.

“You’re telling me that we’re — what, some kind of vigilante squad?” It sounds absolutely absurd. “What the hell kind of name is ‘Birds of Prey’ anyway?”

Renee actually laughs at that. “It was your idea.”

“And you —” She looks at Helena. “What’s your deal? How’d you end up joining in?”

“Sionis ordered my family killed,” Helena says flatly. “So I killed him and his men.”

“Helena _Bertinelli,”_ Renee adds pointedly. “As in —”

“Holy shit,” Dinah breathes, because she may not remember the past two years but she sure as hell remembers the Bertinelli massacre — it's the stuff of legend in Gotham. She vaguely recalls pictures from the newspapers years ago, the same dark-haired girl in the photographs now just feet away. It's surreal, but, Dinah thinks with a hint of irony, not the strangest turn of events that's happened so far today.

Helena’s gaze is on the floor, and it strikes Dinah — they must have had this conversation before, and now she’s dredging it all back up again. “I’m sorry,” she offers, and Helena’s gaze flicks up to hers as she nods in acknowledgment. 

“Lot to take in, right?” Renee stands. “You should get some rest.” She looks to Helena, who frowns and looks ready to protest, but Renee cuts her off. “You too, Killer. Need a goddamn shower. When’s the last time you ate, huh?”

Helena frowns deeper, almost pouting, and now that Renee’s pointed it out, Dinah can see exhaustion written over Helena’s form — dark circles under her eyes, and stiffness in her muscles, and a pallid cast to her skin, and before she knows it, she finds herself saying, “I’ll be fine. You look like you need a break.”

Helena doesn’t look fully reassured, but she follows Renee to the door, then pauses. “I’ll — We’ll come back tomorrow. If you need anything —”

“Thanks,” Dinah tells her, as gently as she can while still making it a clear dismissal, because it’s been a long fucking day.

Again, Helena looks like she’s ready to say something more, but Renee gives Dinah a nod, saying, “See you tomorrow, kid,” and nudging Helena out the door.

Silence falls, broken only by the steady hum of machines and bustle of activity outside the room, and it’s surprisingly lonely — which is strange, because Dinah’s used to solitude, or at least she _should_ be, and _used_ to be, before —

Before she’d apparently broken the vow she’d made to herself standing at her mother’s graveside, the vow never to use her powers, because she’d just end up used by an uncaring city. Before she’d joined a team, found people who seem to care about her — an ex-cop and an orphaned assassin, no less — and though every instinct tells her to back away, to protect herself from the pain that will inevitably come in the form of death or betrayal or any other kind of loss, Dinah can’t deny that it’s comforting, to know that someone has her back.

They’d left her phone on the nightstand, and Dinah knows that it’s probably a bad idea to stare long at a screen with a head injury, but curiosity gets the better of her. When she presses the power button, she’s greeted by a picture — a picture of Helena, wearing a helmet with the visor flipped up, grinning widely at the camera from astride a seriously badass motorcycle. For a second it’s like something tugs at her mind, as if a memory is trying to break free, but when Dinah tries to concentrate, it’s gone again.

“Shit,” she mutters, and then swipes at the screen and enters the passcode she’s always used for her phone — her mom’s birthday — and breathes a sigh of relief when it works. 

The home screen background is a different picture: Helena’s still smiling from atop the bike, but this time Dinah’s on the seat behind her, leaning forward — and placing a kiss to Helena’s cheek. 

All the breath seems to escape her lungs, and she powers off the screen and lets the phone fall to the bedspread. 

They’re not just teammates, or partners in crime-fighting. They’re _together._

\---

“You’re awful quiet, kid.” Renee glances over at Helena from the driver’s seat. “How’re you holding up?”

Helena laughs, short and bitter, and Renee sighs. 

“Stupid question. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Helena takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, tries not to remember what Sal would always tell her about _controlling your emotions_ and what Dinah says to her — _just breathe, baby, I’m right here, see?_

It doesn’t help much.

“Canary’s a tough cookie,” Renee tells her. “Give it a few days, she’ll be good as new. The doctors said it’s probably temporary —”

 _“Probably,”_ Helena repeats bitterly. “She might not.”

“And if that happens, we’ll deal with it,” Renee counters. “You really think she could forget you long? I don’t think so. She _loves_ you, Helena.”

“Loved.” Helena focuses on the buildings passing outside the car window. “She doesn’t know who I am.”

“Give it time —”

“I don’t _want_ to give it time!” Helena knows she sounds petulant, childish, but she doesn’t give a shit. Her eyes are stinging, and she swipes at them angrily. “I don’t want to _wait,_ I want — _fuck.”_

_I want her,_ Helena thinks, wonders how the universe could be so damn cruel — first her family, and now Dinah too?

“It’s a shit deal, kid, I know.” Renee keeps glancing at her sideways, but Helena refuses to meet her gaze, unwilling to see the pity she knows is there.

“Should I have told her?” Helena asks, once her eyes are mostly dry and they’re just a block from the apartment Helena shares with Dinah. 

“I think we dumped enough on her today,” Renee responds. “Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if she figures it out on her own.”

“Do you think —” Helena can’t say it, can’t give voice to the fear that’s eating away at her — the fear that Dinah won’t want to be with someone she doesn’t remember.

“Hey.” They’re parked on the curb outside the apartment building, and Renee takes off her sunglasses and tucks them into the cupholder, leveling Helena with an intent look. “What you two have, that’s the real deal. Some kinda gross soulmate shit, the way you look at each other. I don’t think anything could pull you two apart. It might take time —” and Helena huffs at that, which makes Renee roll her eyes — “but you’ve gotta be patient. Trust me.” She grasps Helena’s shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Now get some rest, kid. Let me know if you need anything, alright?”

“Thanks, Renee.” 

It feels strange to climb the steps alone, to unlock the door to their apartment knowing that Dinah isn’t waiting to greet her on the other side. Everything is exactly how they’d left it the evening before, when they’d headed out to meet up with Renee expecting to be back within a few hours’ time — the clean dishes on the dish rack, the grocery list scribbled on a post-it on the fridge, the throw blanket in a haphazard heap on the sofa. It’s painful in its mundanity, like any minute Dinah will walk through the door after a successful gig and kick off her heels, accept a mug of lemon tea with honey and give Helena a kiss once she’s taken her first sip and sighed with the relief it brings, and they’d stay up longer watching whatever movie’s on TV until Dinah yawns and Helena takes it as a cue to scoop her up and carry her to bed, ignoring Dinah’s half-hearted, laughing protests. 

But the door stays shut, and the silence hangs heavy in the air, and Helena is alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> same cw's as before - angst, mild injury

Dinah’s been awake for almost an hour, half-watching a dull morning talk show and sipping the remains of her orange juice, when there’s a knock on the door. 

“Hi,” Helena says, hovering at the doorway. “How are you feeling?”

Dinah shrugs. “Alright, I guess.” They’d cut back some on some of the painkillers, which had helped clear her thoughts a bit, but it also had the effect of making the ache in her head more pronounced. 

“Have you, um…” Helena trails off awkwardly, but it’s not hard to guess what she’s asking.

“Nothing.” Dinah had hoped that she’d at least have _something,_ especially after searching through her phone’s camera roll and messages for anything that might jog her memory — but she’d gotten nothing from it, apart from the surreal experience of seeing images of a life she can’t remember and the strangeness of not knowing who she’s become.

“Oh.” Helena’s brow crinkles in clear disappointment, but she rallies herself and holds up a paper travel cup. “I brought hot chocolate.”

“Hey, thanks.” Dinah sits up as much as the bed will allow, and Helena takes it as a cue to step further into the room and set the cocoa on the bedside table. 

“Renee’s just parking, she’ll be in soon,” Helena offers, perching in the chair next to the bed like she’s unsure whether she should sit, and Dinah thinks — _fuck it._ Clearly Helena’s dancing around it, but Dinah doesn’t have the patience for that. 

“We’re together, aren’t we?” she asks bluntly, noting the way Helena blinks, caught off-guard. “I saw the pictures on my phone after you left.”

“Oh. Yeah, um.” Helena swallows and nods. “We are.”

“For how long?”

“A year and two months,” she says immediately.

“Damn.” Dinah mulls it over for a moment. “I mean, hey. I’m not complaining.” She grins at Helena, because she certainly isn’t blind to Helena’s attractiveness — or to her evident kind nature — and notes with amusement the blush that rises on Helena’s cheeks. 

Once Renee’s joined them and stopped muttering about meter fees and idiot drivers, the doctor gives them all an update. “You’re free to go home tonight, Miss Lance,” he tells her, glancing around between the three of them. “As long as you’ll have someone around to keep an eye on you.”

Dinah almost frowns, because she lives alone — but then remembers the text messages she’d read the night before from just a few days ago, about grocery lists and what throw rug to buy, and realizes that she doesn’t live alone, not anymore. 

Once the doctor leaves, Helena shifts in her seat and asks, “Are you alright with this? Um, staying with me, I mean?”

And Dinah can’t deny the bit of discomfort she feels at the thought of going _home_ to somewhere she doesn’t recognize, but it’s not like she has much of a choice in the matter — so she replies, “Yeah, of course. Probably good to be somewhere familiar, you know?”

Some of the anxiety dissipates from Helena’s face as she agrees, “Right. Good," and despite Dinah's misgivings, she thinks she's made the right call.

\---

Helena watches Dinah anxiously the whole way home, searching for signs of pain even though Renee’s driving far more cautiously than she usually would. But Dinah just seems tired, her eyes drifting shut for most of the ride, and Helena wants nothing more than to move closer, to take Dinah’s hand in her own and offer her shoulder as a makeshift pillow.

She doesn’t, though — just twists her hands tightly in her lap and bites the inside of her cheek, holding in the words and worries that echo in her mind. It’s like the early days, when she’d been so afraid of making Dinah uncomfortable that she’d drawn back into herself until Dinah had finally taken the lead and assured her that she felt the same way — but it’s even worse now. Back then, Helena hadn’t known what she was missing, not really — she only had the vague images and hopes that she couldn’t resist dwelling on late at night alone in her apartment.

Now, she has months of memories, shining and warm and entirely out of reach, fading into the distance and leaving a gaping wound behind. 

“You need a hand?” Renee asks once she’s pulled up in front of their apartment building, but Helena shakes her head. 

“I can manage.” She could carry Dinah if needed, knows that from experience, but even so, this feels — private, somehow. A step they’re meant to take alone. Normally the sight of their building would give Helena comfort, but today it makes her gut twist painfully, and she has to swallow down a wave of anxiety. 

Dinah’s quiet as Helena gathers their belongings and offers her hand; but aside from a murmur of thanks when Helena helps her out of the car, she doesn’t say a word as they make their way through the lobby into the elevator. Helena tries to catch a glimpse of any spark of recognition that might appear on her face — but there’s nothing but polite curiosity, and the doctor had warned them both not to try and force the process.

“It’ll take time,” he’d said. “Could be days, weeks — it’s really impossible to say.”

He didn’t say _or it might never happen,_ but he didn’t have to — Helena had seen the look on his face, and that had been enough to know what he was leaving unsaid.

“Here we are,” Helena says when they reach their door, trying to keep her voice light as she fumbles with the keys, and Dinah gives her a tight smile, seeming to steel herself before stepping into the apartment.

Helena follows, trying to envision it from Dinah’s perspective — the walls they’d painted together just last month, and the spatter of paint on the floorboards in the corner that they’d tried and failed to scrub away; the record player by the window, needle still lifted and record still in place in anticipation of their next dance; the blooming rosebush on the balcony, lifting toward the sun. A gorgeous pot of orchids sits on the counter, a new addition — well-wishes from Harley and Cass, understated and tasteful in a way that suggests Ivy’s influence. 

Helena hangs back to brew a pot of tea as Dinah moves on to the bedroom, trying to listen for any noise of pain, or of realization — but there’s nothing, and Dinah emerges a moment later, accepting the mug Helena hands her.

“Nothing,” she says abruptly, mouth quirking ruefully. “Figured you’d want to ask.”

It’s not unexpected and yet it still stings. “Right.” Helena nods. “Well, it’s only been two days…”

“Mm-hm.” Dinah sets the mug down and straightens abruptly. “You know, I’m pretty tired. Maybe I should rest for a while.”

“Oh. Of course.” Helena had changed the sheets that morning, and now she leads Dinah back to the bedroom, points out the bathroom on the way and gathers up a change of clothes. 

“I’ll sleep on the couch until…” Helena trails off, unwilling to jinx their luck. “If you need anything, I’m here.”

“It’s your apartment too, you know,” Dinah points out dryly. “From the looks of it, the bed’s plenty big enough for both of us.”

And _god,_ does Helena want to accept. But she doesn’t trust herself, not waking and not asleep, to maintain the boundaries she knows she needs to keep, at least for the time being. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says quietly. “At least until you’re settled.”

Dinah pauses for a moment, then nods. “Alright. Guess I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

“Sleep well,” Helena tells her, even though the words seem woefully inadequate, and Dinah gives her a half-smile in response and turns away. 

It’s past dinnertime, and yet Helena isn’t the least bit hungry. She sits on the couch, flips mindlessly through the channels and wishes that Dinah would need something, anything — a glass of water, or a blanket — because she feels so _useless,_ so powerless, that it makes her throat constrict. 

She lets her eyes drift shut, burying her face in the pillow and willing sleep to claim her. 

\---

The first day passes with no revelation, no sudden jolt of memory — and then the second comes and goes, and the third, in the same fashion. Dinah’s headaches keep her from reading for long, and so the days drag by, agonizing and claustrophobic. Renee stops by each day, sometimes bearing groceries, which she sets on the counter with a decisive _thunk_ as if daring either of them to protest, and always bearing news of the Gotham underworld. 

“It’s been quiet the past few days, thank God,” Renee tells them both. “And the Bats are picking up some of the slack for us, but people are starting to wonder. Mostly tabloid shit right now, but they’re wondering where Canary went. Worrying.”

“Worrying?” Dinah asks, unable to keep the disbelief out of her voice. “Really?”

“You’ve gotten quite a fan club the past couple years,” Renee replies, and as the conversation turns to the baddie of the week, Dinah mulls over Renee’s words. Her mother had had a following, too — kids in Halloween costumes, and newscasters reporting diligently on the actions of the Justice League, and when Dinah was young it felt like a blessing and a curse, to have a famous mother and to have to share her with the rest of the city. But for every fan there was always an angry politician denouncing vigilantism without ever acknowledging the corruption that made it necessary, or another crime lord to take down, and Dinah Drake’s fame hadn’t done a thing to keep her alive in the end.

And yet somehow Dinah herself had ended up on the same path. She wants to be bitter, but she’d seen her Canary costume hanging neatly on the closet door, proudly on display, and now she sees the intensity and passion in Renee and Helena’s faces as they discuss their plans to better the city, and it doesn’t seem like much of a stretch after all. 

“How are you holding up, kid?” Renee asks once it’s just the two of them. Helena’s out on the balcony, watering the little garden that Dinah can’t remember planting. Her back is turned, and Dinah watches her for a moment through the window. 

“Fine, I guess,” she answers, tearing her gaze away and meeting Renee’s eyes. 

“You still don’t —”

“I still don’t remember,” Dinah finishes for her, bitterness edging her tone.

“Bet you’re sick of people asking, huh?” 

_People,_ even though the only other one who would be asking is Helena, and Helena never does ask if Dinah’s remembered anything. But Dinah tells her outright anyway every morning and every evening and whenever she sees the hopeful look come into Helena’s eyes, because Dinah’s unable to stand the quiet anticipation of the unspoken question.

She finds herself looking at Helena again, watching as she carefully adjusts the stem of a tomato plant so that it’s growing upright, supported by the metal railing, and Renee follows her gaze. 

“God, her and that garden,” Renee says, shaking her head. “Last year she had the balcony looking like a jungle. Grew a shit ton of zucchini plants and didn’t know what to do with them all, kept trying to foist ‘em off on me. Turns out she doesn’t even like zucchini.”

“Why’d she plant them, then?” Dinah asks.

“Why do you think?” Renee counters, giving her a meaningful look. “You said you liked them, and there was no stopping her.”

Outside, Helena inspects a tomato on the vine but lets it stay — not ripe yet, Dinah supposes.

“She doesn’t strike me as the gardening type,” is all Dinah can say, because thinking any more about Renee’s words makes something hurt in her throat.

“Crossbow’s full of surprises,” Renee remarks, and then sighs. “Look, Dinah — this whole deal? It sucks. But just remember…” She trails off, her eyes going sad for a moment as she glances back up, looking out toward the balcony. “She’d do anything for you. Go to the ends of the earth.”

“Plant zucchini?” Dinah asks, aiming for dry humor, but it comes out strained.

“You got it.” For a moment it looks like Renee’s about to pat her on the shoulder, or even hug her, but in the end she just says, “If anyone could figure this shit out, it’s you two. And if you need anything, you let me know.”

“Thanks,” Dinah says, and then the glass door slides open and Helena comes back inside and the conversation turns to the progress of the garden — Helena’s waging a war against tomato blight, and losing, if the frown on her face is any indication.

It comes time for Renee to leave, once exhaustion is starting to weigh at Dinah’s limbs, and this time Renee does pull Dinah into a brusque, tight embrace that takes her by surprise.

“Take care of yourself, alright?” she says before meeting Helena at the door and hugging her as well, saying in an undertone, “Hang in there, kid. Give it time.”

Helena doesn’t answer, just nods, and Dinah has to look away when she catches the suspicious watery gleam in Helena’s eyes and the way she swipes brusquely at her cheeks before she shuts the door after Renee and turns back to Dinah, facing her but not quite looking at her. 

“I was thinking takeout for dinner,” is all she says, in a voice of false lightness.

“Works for me,” Dinah replies, and out of the stack of menus Helena passes her Dinah chooses one for a nearby Thai place and studies it, finally deciding, “I think I’ll have the _tom kha gai._ Spicy, with —”

“With extra mushrooms?” Helena finishes, jotting down the order on a post-it note. From the way she says it, knowingly and glancing up with a hint of a smile, it must be a joke between them, and once again Dinah’s reminded how _surreal_ it is, the feeling that Helena seems to know her even better than Dinah knows herself.

She pushes it down, telling Helena, “You got it,” and matching her tone — because at least she looks more at ease than she had moments ago. Seeing her close to tears had unsettled Dinah, and later, after dinner and once she’s lying in bed waiting to fall asleep, she realizes why; somehow, she knows that Helena doesn’t cry, ever — but how she’s so sure, she has no idea.

It isn’t the first instinctive feeling she’s had without explanation, nor is it the last. Dinah can’t tell what’s worse — Helena’s hope when Dinah does something like putting on Helena’s favorite song or making a cup of coffee just the way Helena likes it without any guidance or prompting, or the inevitable disappointment when Dinah has to explain that she doesn’t know how she knew what to do — that it was muscle memory, most likely, and she hasn’t remembered anything more. 

It’s endlessly frustrating to catch a scent, or a snippet of music, and know that there’s _something_ there — tugging like a catch on the end of a fishing line, only to dissipate like smoke moments later, before Dinah can make sense of it.

She tries to stay positive, though, for her own sake and for Helena’s. It’s like Helena can anticipate Dinah’s needs as if they’re her own, offering something to drink or something to eat or a blanket or her medicine before Dinah can even ask, and it might feel smothering coming from anyone else — but Helena looks relieved to be helping, and Dinah remembers the pictures she’d seen in her phone’s camera roll and Helena’s vigilance in the hospital and can’t bring herself to mind.

And she often scrolls through those pictures — to help bring back her memory, she tells herself, but there’s more to it than that. It’s jarring to see herself, smiling and happy in moments that escape her — like looking at a different person entirely. But what’s stranger is to see Helena in the pictures as well, the lines of worry that have marked her face for days disappeared as she beams at the camera, or at Dinah herself.

The easy joy is absent from her expression these days, but there’s a certain softness in how she looks at Dinah in those pictures that’s clear as day in the present as well, evident every time she offers to refill Dinah’s glass and adjust the window blinds so that the sunlight doesn’t give Dinah a headache — little gestures that add up and fill Dinah with a conflicting mix of warmth and aching loss, one that’s grown to be familiar. It seems like every conversation they have leaves her with the feeling, because whenever they slip into a rhythm that seems comfortable, even familiar — with glimpses of Helena’s dry humor that never fail to take Dinah by surprise and make her laugh — there’s a slip, a reference that falls flat, or a callback that Dinah doesn’t remember anymore, and despite Helena’s quick correction and explanations, an uncomfortable pall settles over the room each time.

Cass and Harley stop by to visit too, and before Dinah can adjust to the sight of Harley Quinn bursting into their apartment with a wide grin and hyena in tow, she’s almost knocked over by the force of Cass’s embrace.

“You remember me, right, Canary?” Cass mumbles into her shoulder, and Dinah finds herself returning the embrace without even thinking about it.

“‘Course I do,” Dinah reassures her. “It’s only the details that are fuzzy, y’know?”

It’s not the whole truth, but Cass’s relieved smile is worth it, and it turns out that the girl is a great teacher — willing to explain everything Dinah’s unsure about, clarifying who’s who and what _really_ happened, and even though Dinah’s exhausted, mind whirling, by the time they leave, there’s finally a sense of optimism — that maybe, she could relearn all that she’s forgotten, and find a way to move forward.

It reminds her uncomfortably of learning lines for a play, like she’s a character onstage trying to fit a role that isn’t her own, and it doesn’t help that Helena still hesitates to get too close, spending nights on the couch as Dinah lies in their bed, between sheets scented blandly of detergent — not quite right, although Dinah doesn’t know what _right_ is supposed to be. 

“I’m going out tonight,” Helena tells her after four days since their return to the apartment.

“Got a hot date?” Dinah asks teasingly, but regrets it instantly from the pain that flashes across Helena’s face.

“Uh, no.” Helena clears her throat. “Smuggling ring. I’m meeting Renee at the docks.”

“Right.” It’s an abrupt reminder of the ongoing dissonance between where Dinah is and where she should be. “Be careful, alright?”

“I will,” Helena assures her, and moments later she emerges from the bedroom dressed in combat gear, with a goofy-looking mask and all. 

She looks _good._ Dinah swallows hard. 

“Call if you need anything, alright?” Helena asks, anxiety at odds with her fight-ready appearance, and Dinah realizes that it’s the first time she’ll be alone since she left the hospital. 

She’s not worried, exactly — but the thought makes her sad. After all, she’s gotten accustomed to Helena’s quiet, steadfast presence, distant though it is. Dinah reassures Helena that she’ll call if anything goes wrong, and when the door shuts behind Helena, followed moments later by the sound of her motorcycle revving from the alley below the window, the silence that settles in the room in her wake is suffocatingly lonely. 

Dinah tries to distract herself with a cheesy action flick on TV, but the glow from the screen hurts her eyes, and she ends up on her feet, pacing slowly around the room, moving from picture to picture and trying to piece together a life she can’t remember. The albums stacked neatly by the record player are all old favorites, ones she recalls playing in the kitchen of the apartment she’d lived in as a child as her mother hummed along.

 _At least I remember her,_ Dinah thinks — it’s a mercy, given that she’s the only one who can. 

The bathroom is next, and on a whim Dinah picks up a bottle of shampoo — Helena’s shampoo — and uncaps it, inhaling the artificial green apple scent. For a moment there’s a flicker: _hair tickling her nose, brushed gently aside, dark tangles contrasting with the white pillowcase._ But it’s fuzzy and vague, like a Polaroid left too long in the sun, and Dinah bites back a curse of frustration and moves on, down the hall to the bedroom.

She’s already explored most of it, and Dinah almost gives it up as a lost cause — but she doesn’t have anything better to do. Her fingertips ghost over clothes in the dresser drawer, then over her jewelry in its boxes, then over the sketches on the walls in a style she recognizes as her own even though she can’t recall putting the pencil to paper. 

The nightstand is next — she hadn’t looked in the bottom drawer with Helena around, since she can guess what’s inside and doesn’t want to make Helena any more uncomfortable than she already is, so Dinah leaves it be. The surface of the nightstand is crowded, an empty glass and tube of Chapstick and stack of books vying for space, and sticking out of one of them — a worn copy from her high school days, with her own name in the front cover — is a post-it note in Helena’s handwriting.

_Cooking tonight — love you, back soon. -H_

It’s so simple, so utterly mundane and effortless, and Dinah finds herself blinking back tears. “Jesus,” she mutters, embarrassed at herself as she swipes at her eyes. She’d saved the note, maybe just out of a need for a bookmark — or for the simple _love you,_ words she now finds herself aching for.

Except it wasn’t _her,_ who saved the note — was it? It was someone she _isn’t_ anymore. Someone who sketches pictures of her girlfriend and hangs them on the walls, who knows how to make the best cup of coffee, who keeps post-it note messages and uses them to mark her place.

Someone who loves, and is loved in return.

Dinah wants it, wants it so goddamn _bad,_ and it tears right through her, the thought that she’s missed her chance, that she’ll be left with vague impressions of _what could have been,_ and it makes her desperate for something, _anything,_ to bring it back. 

She yanks open the nightstand drawer, rummaging past half-used makeup products and lotions, through layers of discarded items and then her hand closes on something small, velvety to the touch, buried deep in the drawer.

“Oh, shit,” Dinah breathes, drawing it out — there’s no question what it is, none at all, and she stares at the box in her palm wondering if she should open it.

Curiosity wins out, and she eases it open just a crack — just enough to catch the glimpse of a metal band, the sparkle of a gem, and she bites back a near-hysterical laugh. 

There’s something ironic about it — she can’t remember a damned thing about the past two years, but she knows something now that she hadn’t before the injury: that there’s a ring in the nightstand meant for her.

Dinah doesn’t have time to process it, though, because there’s the rattle of a key in the lock, and Helena’s voice comes from the living room.

“Dinah?” She sounds tired, but worry is clear in her tone, and Dinah makes a split-second choice — pushes the box away and eases the drawer shut. 

“In here.” Dinah stands, crossing the room and gritting her teeth against the throb of her headache, nearly colliding with Helena in the hallway.

“Are you alright?” Helena asks, and even in the dim light Dinah can make out the bruises and cuts marring her skin.

“Shit, are _you?”_ Dinah reaches out without thinking to rest her hand on one of the bruises on her arm. Electricity seems to jolt between them, and Helena flinches at the touch, gentle though it had been.

“I’m fine.” She won’t meet Dinah’s eyes, and Dinah scoffs.

“Yeah, no. Let’s get you cleaned up.” She’s headed to the bathroom as if on autopilot, drawing a first-aid kit from under the sink — _how did I know that was there?_ she wonders, then guesses that this is probably routine for them. 

Helena’s watching from the doorway, eyes soft and sad and hopeful all at once, and Dinah thinks about the ring in the nightstand and clears her throat. “Here, sit.” She nods at the edge of the tub, and after a moment’s hesitation Helena obeys, toeing off her boots and shrugging off her jacket before perching there.

“You got pretty banged up, huh?” Dinah observes, dabbing ointment on a particularly nasty-looking cut, and Helena just shrugs.

“I’ve had worse,” she replies, and there’s an undercurrent of humor in her voice — inviting Dinah in on the joke, because she’s likely been a witness to _worse._ Dinah sees it now, too — scars dotting Helena’s arms, a knotted line of pink skin stretching over her hip. 

She’s found new scars on herself as well — traced them, and wondered at them, and this moment is a confirmation of her suspicion that Helena had been the one to hold a needle and thread and press a bandage against those wounds.

Dinah does her best to return the favor now, cleaning and staunching the wounds one-by-one, and by the time she’s finished Helena is wilting with exhaustion, eyes half-closed. 

“Let’s get you to bed,” Dinah tells her, offering a hand to help her up. “You’re not sleeping on the couch like this, you hear?”

“I’ll be alright.” Helena stands, letting go as soon as she’s on her feet like she can’t bear to touch Dinah for any longer than she has to.

Dinah swallows down the brief surge of hurt at the thought and keeps her voice level as she points out, “You’re hurt, and you need rest.” She can’t resist adding, “It’s been days, H, I’m settled in by now.”

Helena bites her lip but nods. “I’ll just, um —” She nods toward the bedroom. “Get changed.”

She ducks out through the doorway, leaving Dinah alone with a sense of deja vu she can’t make sense of no matter how hard she tries.

\---

“You’re sure about this?”

Dinah levels her with a look of fond exasperation that’s so achingly familiar it makes Helena’s chest hurt. “It was my idea, wasn’t it? Come on. That couch is too damn small for you anyway.”

So Helena slides beneath the covers, sinking into the mattress with an undeniable sense of relief. Dinah’s right — she’s spent the past four nights with her ankles sticking over the side of the couch and has woken up with a terrible crick in her neck each morning. But her enjoyment dissipates almost immediately, because as soon as she registers the weight of Dinah’s presence beside her, her warmth and the sound of her even breathing, all of Helena’s reservations hit her full-force, making her breath hitch.

 _God._ She doesn’t know if she can take this. It’s torture, plain and simple — the _wrongness_ of it all is crushing. It’s bad enough to keep her distance, to give Dinah space to adjust, but the closeness is worse — a reminder of the disconnect between them, the way they’ve fallen out of step, out of rhythm. She hates it — and she hates herself for the frustration that builds within her with every passing hour, for her own impatience.

 _Selfish,_ she thinks, it’s selfish of her to make it about herself, when Dinah’s the one in pain. But it’s a punch to the gut every time Helena recalls another moment that had been _theirs._ Now she’s the only one who carries those memories, maybe the only one who ever will, and she wonders if she’s strong enough to manage.

Years she’d spent alone, and yet somehow she doesn’t think she’s ever felt as lonely as she does now.

Dinah shifts beside her, letting out a sigh, and Helena squeezes her eyes shut, cursing herself. The men who raised her would have tutted, shaken their heads. _Self-pity is worthless. It makes you weak,_ they would have said. _You can only be stronger. Harder. Better._

She wonders what Dinah would say, if she’d say anything at all — or if she’d just listen, and take Helena’s hands in her own to give them a comforting squeeze, and that would be all Helena would need. 

And the thought hardens Helena’s resolve. Dinah needs her to be strong, dependable, and so she will. She’ll do anything for Dinah, anything at all — she can be patient. She’d wait a hundred years, a thousand, or even more, if that’s what it would take.

 _It would be worth it,_ Helena thinks. _She’s worth it._

And she closes her eyes and lets sleep claim her.

\---

_She’s surrounded by warmth, warmth and soft morning light, and the world is hazy with sleep when she feels Helena stirring beside her._

_“Too early,” Dinah complains, words muffled by the sheets, and she casts a hand around blindly until it lands on Helena’s waist, tugging her closer._

_“It’s time for my run.”_

_“Really? It’s five in the damn morning.”_

_“Seven,” Helena corrects, but she rolls closer._

_“Still too early.” Dinah squints at her. “Five more minutes, baby.”_

_“Fine,” Helena huffs, trying to sound annoyed but failing, and Dinah leans in to capture Helena’s smile with her lips, savoring all the places their limbs meet and the warmth that radiates from the connection — and then Helena’s hand trails down her neck, down her chest, and Dinah doubts that five minutes is going to be enough but doesn’t mind a bit —_

She opens her eyes. 

There’s a warmth against her back, and an arm draped over her waist, and it feels _familiar,_ right in a way Dinah can’t quantify. She doesn’t know if it was a memory that came to her or just a dream, but for once it’s lingering, long enough for Dinah to try to grasp it. 

_Just a moment longer,_ she thinks — and then she feels the mattress shift, and the comforting weight of Helena’s arm lifts. The warmth fades, replaced by a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room, and just like that — the moment ends, and the memory drifts maddeningly out of reach. 

She was so _close —_ frustration wells up inside her, and she fights back the temptation to snap. _Not Helena’s fault,_ Dinah tells herself, but if Helena hadn’t pulled away — 

Dinah squeezes her eyes closed and takes a deep breath. _Patience,_ that’s all anyone’s talked about — be _patient,_ wait and see — and Dinah doesn’t know how much more she can take.

She wishes she’d never gone looking yesterday. Even tucked away deep in the drawer, the ring seems to taunt her, reminding her what she’s lost, what Helena’s lost, what Dinah can’t give her anymore. It casts a pallor over her mood, and Helena clearly knows her too well not to see it.

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Helena asks that afternoon, brow furrowed with concern. “Would, um — would it help if I left for a while?”

Part of her says _yes,_ if only so that Dinah can have some time to _think,_ but she knows that it would just widen the gap between them, deepen the hurt on both sides. There’s too much left unspoken, and Dinah’s sick of pretending that this is sustainable.

There’s no point clinging on to the hope that things will go back to normal, and before Dinah can stop herself she says, “I found the ring.”

“You found — what?” Helena frowns, tilts her head like she’s confused.

“Don’t — god. You don’t have to pretend, alright?” Dinah lets out a humorless laugh. “Look, I’m sorry. You didn’t sign up for this — I’m not the person you loved, alright? And we can keep dancing around each other like this, but maybe it’s better if — I don’t know.” _If I leave,_ she was going to say, but the words can’t quite make it past her lips. 

Helena’s shaking her head, drops to sit beside Dinah on the couch — a foot of distance between them still. “I don’t understand.” The confusion on her face — it’s genuine, Dinah realizes with a sinking feeling, and Helena looks like she’s going to be sick. “What are you talking about? What did you find?”

“Maybe it was nothing —” But even as she says it, Dinah knows it’s not true.

“Dinah,” Helena cuts in. Her hands are twisting in her lap, knuckles white with unconcealed anxiety, and Dinah realizes that she can’t go back now.

The box is just where she’d left it, fitting perfectly in the palm of her hand, and Helena takes it from her carefully.

“I didn’t mean to find it,” Dinah says. “I was just trying to find something to help me remember.”

“I didn’t, um.” Helena swallows, and she’s staring hard at the box, running a finger along the seam of the lid as she opens it to reveal a simple silver band adorned with a garnet. “Dinah, I didn’t…”

She shakes her head, a quick, wordless movement, and then it occurs to Dinah that it’s odd, for Helena to have hidden it in _Dinah’s_ nightstand. Odd, for the band to be silver, since Dinah only ever wears gold jewelry. 

A hundred emotions unfold across Helena’s face, shock and grief and wonder and pure agony, and Dinah realizes with a sinking heart that she’d gotten it terribly wrong.

“I didn’t buy this ring,” Helena finally whispers, voice ragged, and she lifts her eyes to meet Dinah’s. “You did.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay - here's the final part. hope you enjoy!
> 
> cw: allusion to nightmares, implied sexual content

“I didn’t buy this ring,” Helena forces herself to say, the words tearing like broken glass in her chest. It’s the hardest thing in the world to bring her gaze up to meet Dinah’s, to see the dawning realization on her face, and when Helena says, “You did,” there’s a moment where neither of them dare to look away, suspended in a moment of fragility that shatters like glass when Dinah closes her eyes.

“Shit.” Dinah shakes her head, presses her fingertips to her forehead and sighs. “God, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Helena replies automatically, the words sounding hollow even to her own ears. She can’t bear to hold the ring any longer, especially as she wonders whether it would fit, what it would feel like resting on her finger, and so she closes the box and sets it carefully on the dresser. 

Dinah huffs a humorless laugh. “No, it isn’t.” She looks up, expression dead serious. “Don’t you see? It’s not _fine,_ Helena. I’m trying to keep my hopes up, and I know you are too, but you’re hurting — and you’re trying not to show it, but I can see how you look at me, and it feels like — like I’m not the person you loved. I’m not her, and I don’t know if I ever will be,” she finishes flatly.

“That’s not true.” It comes out too loud, too fast, and Helena takes a breath and tries again. “That’s not true,” she repeats, softer this time, even as a surge of guilt washes over her — guilt for letting Dinah ever believe that Helena wouldn’t love her no matter what. 

Even if Dinah didn’t love her back.

“Really?” There’s doubt in Dinah’s voice. “You can barely stand to touch me — hell, to be _near_ me. What am I supposed to make of that?”

The words cut right through her, the disbelief and hurt in Dinah’s voice piercing like knives, and silence stretches out between them for a beat as Helena searches for words — she’s not _good_ at this, at the talking, but she needs more than anything to get it right. “I thought,” she begins slowly, carefully, “that you might be uncomfortable, if I — if I touched you, and… I didn’t want that.” Helena swallows, bracing herself, and adds in a rush, “And I knew I couldn’t stand it, if that happened. If — if you pulled away.”

And that’s the truth of it — as much as she’d told herself that the distance she’d put between them was for Dinah’s sake, for Dinah’s comfort, it had been just as much for Helena’s own protection, if not more.

“I’m sorry,” Helena says, meaning it fully even though the words seem too small and insignificant to hold the feeling behind it, and she doesn’t even notice that she’s clenching her fists, nails biting into skin, until there’s a soft touch of warmth against the back of her hand. The tension ebbs immediately, and Dinah takes her hand, stroking her thumb lightly over the skin. Her eyes have softened, the frustration that had been there moments before ebbing away to understanding, and Helena’s so relieved she could cry. 

“What a mess,” Dinah mutters, mouth quirked in a rueful smile, and Helena huffs a laugh in response, but something’s still bothering her. 

“You said that you’re not the person I loved — that I love.” She shakes her head. “But that isn’t true. I still _am_ in love with you, and I’m sorry that — that I didn’t show it well enough.”

“I might never remember,” Dinah points out, voice low. “Or it could take months, or years —”

“That wouldn’t change how I feel,” Helena interjects. “And if —” She bites her lip. “And if you don’t feel the same way,” she continues, “I would understand. Okay?”

She’d thought back at the start that there’d be nothing worse than if Dinah didn’t want to be with her anymore, but now Helena knows that isn’t true. To lose her as a lover and as a friend and teammate would be unimaginably painful. To see her miserable for Helena's sake would be worse.

“I want you to be happy,” Helena says softly, means it completely, and thinks — _no matter what._

“Thank you,” Dinah tells her. She’s still clasping onto Helena’s hands, firm and reassuring, and she tilts her head. “You know, I can’t remember _shit,”_ she starts, looking up at Helena through her eyelashes, “but I do know one thing.”

“What is it?” Helena asks.

“That I’m pretty damn lucky,” Dinah says simply. “Damn lucky to have you.”

She squeezes Helena’s hands and gives her a cautious smile that Helena feels herself returning as she manages to reply, “I am too,” and feels the truth of it in her core. 

_It’s a start,_ Helena thinks, and even though the ring is still sitting in its box on the dresser, a silent reminder, she feels an unspoken tension begin to ease within her.

\---

It’s easier than Dinah expects — Helena’s noticeably less reserved throughout the day, making an effort not to draw away, and that night, all Dinah has to say is, “I’m headed to bed — you coming?” and Helena nods.

“I’ll probably shower first,” she says, so Dinah waits until the shower’s running and the curtain’s pulled shut before she steps into the bathroom. The patter of the water against the tub is a soothing rhythm, and every so often out of the corner of her eye Dinah catches a flash of pale skin above the curtain rod as Helena runs her hands through her hair, rinsing out suds. She thinks this must be another nighttime ritual, because it feels too familiar not to be, even once she’s dozing off between the sheets and the mattress dips as Helena joins her. She settles closer than she had last night — Helena sleeps on her back, Dinah’s learned — and though Dinah’s half-asleep, she finds Helena’s hand under the covers and grasps it briefly. 

“Night,” she murmurs, opening her eyes just long enough to meet Helena’s through the darkness.

“Goodnight, Dinah,” comes the quiet reply, and even though Dinah’s eyes drift shut again she can feel the slightest shift as Helena moves closer, just a bit.

When Dinah falls asleep, Helena hasn’t pulled away, and Dinah hasn’t let go of her hand. 

She wakes to the darkness of predawn and an empty bed — still warm, though, and there’s light spilling out from the bathroom. Dinah’s on her feet before her head’s fully cleared, and for a moment she wonders if she should stay in bed and feign sleep, because she doesn’t really know why Helena’s out of bed —

But some intuition keeps her moving, padding quietly across the floorboards, and she clears her throat before she reaches the bathroom doorway so as not to startle Helena. It probably isn’t necessary — Helena doesn’t look surprised to see her, meeting her eyes in the bathroom mirror, and Dinah blinks against the bright light and pauses in the doorway. 

“Hey,” she says, her throat still scratchy from sleep. “You alright?”

Helena shrugs. “‘M fine.”

Dinah doesn’t believe it — but Helena’s at least looking at her, turning to face her as Dinah crosses to reach for a glass on the vanity and not shying away. 

“Here.” Dinah fills the glass and hands it over; Helena accepts it with a nod, draining half the water with slow sips before she sets it down. 

“You didn’t have to get up,” Helena says. Her left hand is closed around something small, metallic, but Dinah only gets a glimpse of purple between Helena’s fingers and can’t make out what it is. 

“Well, I was worried about you.” Dinah reaches out, rests her hand on Helena’s elbow, and takes it as a good sign that Helena leans into the touch. “Not sick, are you? Or just couldn’t sleep?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Helena replies, and her eyes flick away for a moment as she adds, “Bad dreams.”

 _Oh._ Dinah makes a sympathetic noise, rubbing her thumb in circles over Helena’s arm. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” comes Helena’s instinctive reply, but then her voice softens. “It helps.”

“What does?”

“Having you — close. Here.” For a moment Helena looks like she regrets the admission, a hint of anxiety crossing her features as she waits for Dinah’s response, but all Dinah can think is how Helena must have felt sleeping on the couch for nights on end, alone with a closed door between them. 

“Good,” Dinah tells her. “I’m glad it helps.” She gives Helena’s arm a final squeeze and stifles a yawn with the back of her hand. “Want to try and sleep again? I’ll sit up with you if you can’t.”

“I’ll try.” 

It takes Dinah’s eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness when Helena turns off the bathroom light, but even so, she can see well enough to realize what Helena’s been holding in her other hand up until this moment, when she sets it carefully on the nightstand and gets into bed — it’s a toy car, and though curiosity tugs at Dinah, she doesn't ask.

Helena lets out a sigh when her head falls back against the pillow, and Dinah settles in too, close enough that their legs brush together in a reassuring press of warmth. 

“Dinah?”

“Hm?” 

Helena turns her head to face Dinah, a stray curl falling across her eye with the motion. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

“‘Course,” Dinah whispers in return. “Anytime.” And she reaches across to tuck the curl back in place, Helena’s eyelids fluttering shut at the brush of Dinah’s fingertips against her forehead. Dinah draws back, but keeps her arm resting on the mattress between them, nudged against Helena’s shoulder, and for a long moment she doesn’t look away — just memorizes the dusting of freckles on the bridge of Helena’s nose, the scar on her lip and the starkness of her lashes against her skin, learns it all by heart.

She doesn’t intend to forget again.

\--- 

“Soup alright for dinner?” Helena asks, glancing up from a steaming pot on the stove. “It’s from the freezer.”

“Sounds great,” Dinah agrees, grabbing spoons from the drawer, so Helena ladles soup into two bowls and hands one to Dinah, who takes it, inhales appreciatively —

And drops it on the floor.

The bowl cracks into two neat halves, and soup splatters the cabinets and floor, but Helena’s more concerned about the faraway look in Dinah’s eyes, the frown on her face.

“Are you alright?” Helena takes her by the elbow, steering her away from the mess, and her heart pounds in her chest as she tries to remember what the doctor might have said about warning signs of trouble. “Dinah?”

“You made soup,” is all Dinah says, and she’s looking at Helena with wonder, hope sparking in her eyes.

“Yeah, that’s what we’re having for dinner,” Helena replies, but Dinah shakes her head.

“No, I mean — I remember it.” She’s grinning now. “I was sick, right? And you made me soup. It was, what, February?”

“You remember,” Helena echoes, awed.

“Hell yeah, I do!” Dinah grabs her hands. “All of a sudden, it just fucking _hit_ me. Not all of it.” Some of her excitement dims as she clarifies, “Just about the soup, and being sick. But still. Good news, right?”

“Great news,” Helena tells her. It's a simple thing, a baby step in the right direction, and yet it feels miraculous. “Why the hell didn’t I make soup a week ago?”

And Dinah laughs, bright and loud, music to Helena’s ears after days without that sound, and all Helena can think about is how much she wants to kiss her. She doesn’t mean to bring her hand up to cup Dinah’s face, but suddenly Dinah’s stopped laughing — but she isn’t pulling away either.

Helena swallows down shame, guilt, curses herself for losing control. “Sorry,” she murmurs, but as she pulls away Dinah grabs her hand midair.

“Don’t apologize,” she says, voice low, and Helena can’t tell who leans in first — or if they’re perfectly in sync, muscle memory extending to their love as well — but before she knows it Dinah’s lips are warm against her own, fitting exactly as Helena remembers. Everything is exactly how she remembers, every sensation aligned with memory and yet somehow new and unique all at once.

But Helena pulls away, far sooner than she’d like, and she searches Dinah’s eyes for any sign of discomfort or displeasure as she asks, “Is this alright?”

“God, yes,” Dinah replies, and her eyes are shining, so Helena tucks her hand against Dinah’s jawline and kisses her again, sweet and gentle and brimming with joy.

When they part, Dinah leans against the counter, looking half-dazed and happy, her mouth curving in a crooked smile as she glances at the floor. “Sorry about the mess.”

“It’s fine.” Helena almost forgot about it, and she isn’t the least bit upset — every part of her is alight, singing with relief and hope. “I’ll clean it up.”

So Dinah hands her a handful of paper towels and plucks up the shards of porcelain, dropping them into the trash one-by-one, and even though Helena’s hands are sticky now with cold soup and the floor will need mopping, she can’t bring herself to mind — not when the memory of the kiss is so fresh, not when Dinah’s still got a smile on her face, still looking at Helena like she’d kiss her again given the chance.

And she does, after dinner, when Helena still has soap suds on her hands from washing the dishes, and again on the couch during a commercial break, and again before they turn out the lights in their room — and every time is a little more confident, a little longer and bolder and sweeter.

They fall asleep tangled together, and wake up the same way, and somehow Dinah knows exactly where they fit together, where to drape her arms and rest her head like the knowledge goes deeper than memory, down to her very core — and maybe it does, Helena thinks drowsily, half-asleep just after dawn, and the thought fills her with peace. It's morning, and for a moment Helena considers starting the day — but it seems far more important to savor this moment, this feeling. There will be time later for training, and planning, and the quiet work of rebuilding, but for now she closes her eyes and lets herself drift off again, lulled by the warmth of the sheets and of Dinah against her.

\---

After the soup incident, and the kiss that had followed, it had been like a wall crumbling down in Dinah’s mind, brick by brick. Now, barely an hour passes without some kind of recollection, just a snippet or full scenes, and Dinah can scroll back through her camera roll and remember the moments captured on film. But often it’s scents and sounds that trigger a memory rather than sights, which is why after dinner the next evening Dinah selects a record on instinct and sets it on the turntable.

“You know, this is one of those songs that just sounds _better_ on vinyl.” Dinah sighs happily, lifting her gaze from the record spinning on the player and meeting Helena’s eyes.

“Yeah, I know,” Helena replies, a hint of amusement in her voice. “And you call _me_ a snob.”

“I’m not a _snob,”_ Dinah huffs, but there’s a grin tugging at her lips. “It’s true. And aren’t you the one who got it for me anyway?”

“I am.” Helena nods, looking pleased — with herself, or with Dinah for remembering, or maybe both. And she does remember. It had been a birthday gift; she can picture the bright wrapping paper around the record player, and every single record wrapped individually. She remembers raising her eyebrows at the sight, saying, “This must have taken forever,” and Helena had shrugged even though Dinah knew — _knows_ — that she hates wrapping gifts.

And once she’d gotten through them all, laying them out across the kitchen table like a patchwork quilt, Helena had asked her which she wanted to hear first.

“This one,” she’d said, the one that’s playing now, and then —

She doesn’t remember. 

“Do you want, um.” Helena clears her throat; her cheeks are pink. “To, um — dance?” She’s crossed over to the record player, hand hovering over the needle as she waits for Dinah’s reply.

“Alright,” Dinah agrees, thinking that they must have danced on her birthday, too, leaving the crumpled wrapping paper forgotten, and Helena nods and lifts the needle, dropping it back in place. 

The song restarts, simple piano notes in gentle succession, and Helena holds out her hand for Dinah to clasp. Dinah rests her other hand on Helena’s waist, and for a moment, they just stand like that, unmoving, until Dinah can’t hold back a laugh.

“You gonna dance with me or what?”

“I’m not very good.” Helena frowns, adorably self-conscious. “You had to teach me.”

“I did, huh?” Dinah moves in closer, swaying the tiniest bit along to the rhythm and nudging Helena to do the same. “Well, if I did it once, guess I can do it again. Just trust me.”

“I do,” Helena murmurs, and the warmth in her eyes brings a lump to Dinah’s throat.

“Good,” she manages. “Follow my lead.”

And Helena’s hand comes to rest between her shoulderblades as they sway. It’s more like the stilted middle-school version of slow-dancing than anything resembling a waltz — for a master assassin, Helena has two left feet — but it isn’t awkward, not in the least. Dinah hums along to the melody, and Helena’s eyes drift closed, the usual furrow in her brow smoothing out with ease, and all Dinah can think about is how _good_ it feels, how right. Even if she didn’t have a single scrap of memory, even if she didn’t have the days of Helena’s careful concern, even if she didn’t have the photographic proof on her phone and the sketches on the walls, this moment would be enough to convince Dinah without a doubt:

Helena loves her, and Dinah loves her back, and Dinah doesn’t think anything can change that.

It’s that thought that leads her to close the distance between them and rest her head against Helena’s shoulder; she can feel Helena’s breath ghosting along the crown of her head. They stay like that throughout the whole song, and when the final chords start to fade Dinah only has to tilt her chin upward the slightest bit to capture Helena’s lips with her own. 

They break apart when the only sound in the room is that of their breathing and whir of the record player awaiting a new song, but Dinah keeps a hand on Helena’s waist and lifts the other to brush Helena’s hair back from her face. 

And it’s starting to come back to her, in bits and pieces, the memory of her birthday and all the dances that had come after that day, but Dinah asks anyway. “What comes next?” 

“Next?”

“After dancing.”

“Oh.” Helena blushes. “Well…”

“Well what?”

“Well, sometimes we put on another song.”

“And other times?” Dinah presses, biting back a smile at Helena’s awkwardness — even though she’s dancing around the answer, it’s enough to confirm Dinah’s suspicions about exactly where this brings them. But she pauses for a moment, catches Helena’s gaze and holds it. “Hey. If you’re not ready —”

“Are you?”

“Yeah,” Dinah murmurs. “I am.”

“Alright.” Helena nods decisively. “Then I am too.”

And so Dinah kisses her again until they’re both breathless, fumbling across the kitchen and nearly tripping over the couch, until they reach the bedroom and Helena stops.

“Can I —”

“Yes,” Dinah murmurs, guiding Helena’s hands to the hem of her shirt. It’s not their first time, Dinah knows that, and she’s starting to remember all the times before — but Helena looks at her almost like it is, with wonder and awe that paints her every movement and touch with tenderness.

It’s not their first time, but it feels beautifully new all the same.

“You’ve been healing quite nicely, Miss Lance,” the doctor tells her, a sheaf of test results in hand as he gives an approving nod. “And you’ve recovered some memories, correct?”

“That’s right.” 

“You should be aware,” the doctor says gently, “human memory is imperfect at the best of times. It’s a slow process, and frustrating at times.”

Dinah huffs a laugh — _no shit,_ she wants to say. “I understand,” she replies instead — she’s hopeful, optimistic, but not naive. “I might not remember everything,” she’d warned Helena that morning when they were still lying in bed together, and Helena had just blinked at her through eyes still half-hazy with sleep.

“That’s alright,” she’d replied. “We can just — do more things. Make up for it.”

And Dinah had figured _why not start now?_ and leaned right across the pillow to close the space between them, and if Helena had been surprised by the unexpected kiss, she hadn’t let it show.

“But the fact that you’ve been recovering and retaining memories consistently over the past few days is very promising,” the doctor tells her now. “Between that, and the fact that you have a strong support system in place, it seems like you’re on the right path.”

 _On the right path._ The words linger with her as the appointment concludes and she finishes the paperwork at the check-out station, stepping back into the waiting room to see Helena look up and meet her eye.

“How’d it go?”

“Great,” Dinah answers, feeling a lightness in every step. “Said I was all healed up.”

“That’s good — awesome. I’m so glad.” She smiles, relief and softness and sincerity all at once, and Dinah grins back.

She slips her hand into Helena’s. “Let’s go home.”

“Alright,” Helena agrees, tightening her grasp for a brief moment as they step out into the daylight. There’s a ring in the dresser of their bedroom, tucked away, waiting for the right time — and Dinah knows that that time will come with utter certainty — and a superhero costume hanging on the closet door, ready for Dinah to wear again — sooner rather than later, she thinks.

 _On the right path._ Dinah hears the doctor’s words again in her mind, and she glances over at Helena in the driver’s seat, taking them back to their apartment — back home — and Dinah knows that they’re true.

She couldn’t imagine a better path than the one they’re on together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! in case you're curious, the song i envisioned for the dance scene is "Your Song" by Elton John. 
> 
> i'd love to hear what you think! find me on tumblr @ace-verity


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